Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1)

by Vic Marelle

  Kevin had been quite forthcoming. They were a little behind schedule but construction would start soon. In phase one, trees behind the existing caravan plots would be felled and an area to the side cleared to make way for the pool. An existing semi-derelict building currently hidden by the trees would then become the new restaurant. Final stage would be to extend the caravan park into the adjacent field and create new plots. His dad was working on that at the moment and they hoped for a swift conclusion.

  Initially, Simon had manipulated their small talk, but with aspects of Green Fields proposed expansion exhausted, Kevin had steered the conversation back to the car. How old was it? Had Simon done the engine swap himself? How fast could it go? All predictable questions asked a million times before by what seemed like a million others before him. One of the downsides of owning a unique car he supposed.

  The big old wooden doors were still open when they had returned to the workshop and Kevin’s mate must have arrived because the back of pickup was jacked up. Yet something just didn’t feel right. Simon took in the scene – something was jumping out at him, but what in heaven’s name was it? Bending down to look under the truck he could see that the prop shaft had been removed. Nothing there to arouse suspicion then.

  Spying his chance when Kevin announced that he would brew up for the three of them, Simon took down the book Kevin had referred to earlier and flipped quickly through its pages. Clearly a log for the workshop, he looked for the date of the attack on Johnson. In an almost undecipherable scrawl, there was an entry ‘PA – ex – van’ which obviously meant Peter Archer / exhaust / van. So, just as the police had said, Archer had been in the workshop fixing the exhaust on his van at the time Johnson was being attacked. PA appeared on other dates as well, usually followed by Van or Pickup, which squared with Kevin’s comment that his dad carried out most of the maintenance on their vehicles. The log put Archer in the clear for the attack but put doubts on financing any expansion of the caravan park unless money was coming from the Johnson’s.

  ‘Sugar Simon?’ shouted Kevin from the back of the workshop.

  Quickly putting the log back where he had found it, Charlton followed the voice, to find a tall thin man of about 28 or 30 standing with Kevin, both of them nursing mugs of tea. ‘No thanks,’ Charlton responded, accepting a mug of what looked like thick brown soup. Kevin introduced the mechanic as his friend Rick, Rick Worth – an apt name because anything he didn’t know about cars just wasn’t worth knowing.

  Six

  Ducking under some low hanging branches and pushing foliage to one side, Inspector Frank Davies followed his guide along a narrow path. Though only a couple of hundred metres from the main road, the silence was broken only by the occasional sound of hens clucking, or high volume and quite strident birdcalls. Looking down with distaste at his highly polished shoes and light beige trousers that were quickly becoming encrusted with dirt he exclaimed impatiently, ‘Where is it? I hope it’s worth this bloody trek when we get there. I should be at the Vincent discussing next year’s budget over a slap-up meal with the Chief and his wife, not trudging through the undergrowth in this God forsaken place getting filthy.’

  As it wound through the trees, the path took a turn to the left and opened out slightly. In front of them was some sort of ruin. Hardly a building anymore, it had degenerated into a hotch potch collection of odd walls, seemingly with no connection and being rapidly overtaken by trees and undergrowth. Rising about a metre out of the forest floor in front of them was a circular brick construction that could be a well, while to their left, a tower grew out of the undergrowth.

  ‘What the hell is this place,’ he grumbled, picking his way through the undergrowth carefully. ‘I’ve driven the main road every day of my life for the last few years and didn’t know it existed.’

  ‘It’s all that’s left of Lydiate Hall,’ came the reply. ‘I don’t know the history but it’s been in this state for years. Local historians and walkers come around but that’s about it these days. Looking at what’s left, it’s in a precarious state and there’s going to be an accident sooner or later when some more masonry falls. There’s nothing holding these walls up – all the corners and supporting walls have come down already.’

  Reaching the well, Davies could see that the tower was actually a chimney breast. Rising up out of the undergrowth some two stories and capped by the remains of chimneys it seemed surreal. Gaping holes that had once been massive fireplaces remained on the ground and upper floors but along with the floors themselves, all the connecting walls had long since fallen down. He followed his sergeant around a dangerous looking buttress, past a wall of magnificent mullioned windows – now glassless – into what at some time had clearly been a rather grand stately room with yet another huge old stone fireplace that looked quite baronial. Ducking to avoid fronds and branches and slipping on the uneven ground, the sergeant made for a gap between the window wall and fireplace. Davies guessed that they were now on the opposite side of the wall that had first barred their way. He saw that it was actually part of yet another old chimney breast, but that this one had a smaller quite simple brick fireplace. Had only those walls that held fireplaces or mullioned windows survived? It certainly looked like it. Two paramedics, a uniformed constable and a tall man that Davies recognised as the police doctor were huddled in conversation near the fireplace.

  ‘Morning Sir.’ Said the constable. ‘It looks like you’ve been called out for nothing. The doc thinks that this bloke just had a heart attack.’

  ‘What have we got John?’ Davies asked the doctor.

  ‘Not sure yet Frank,’ he responded. ‘But heart attack looks to be favourite. He’s got a nasty gash on his head but that could be from a fall. Other than that there are no obvious signs of foul play, so until he’s been opened up the only thing I can say for sure is that he is dead. He was found leaning against the back of the fireplace so he could have felt unwell, sat down and died. Or he could have tripped and got that gash on the head then sat down to recover. Who knows? There is so much rubble and stone around here anything is possible. And to the obvious question, rigor is only just beginning so we are looking at about three hours since death. At this point I would put it between three and three and a half hours max.’

  ‘OK John, if you say it’s not suspicious then we can get him packed off to the morgue.’ Then turning, ‘Who found him?’

  ‘A young couple sir,’ replied the constable. ‘They were over there just behind that low wall doing, well, doing what young couples do, and the girl spied what she thought was a peeping Tom watching them. Apparently they tidied themselves up a bit and made to go back to their car but the lad flung some abuse at the bloke as they went past and they realised something was wrong when our corpse remained perfectly still.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘The girl was a bit shaken up so my opo took them to the coffee shop that’s part of the farm, you must have seen it when you parked your car.’

  What a huge waste of time the whole escapade was turning out to be thought Davies. If there was anything that the Chief hated it was sloppy timekeeping, particularly from his favourite inspector, but with the state his shoes and trousers were in he would have to detour back home for a clean up before hightailing it the ten miles into Southport. And all that for a simple heart attack. Clearly there was nothing more that they could do at that point and no need for forensics either.

  ‘Any identification?’ he asked.

  ‘No sir. There’s no wallet, nothing much in his pockets at all.

  Turning to his sergeant he gave instructions for the body to be moved, everyone cleared from the death site and then finally to go and talk to the couple and get a statement from them. The whole thing could then be turned over to the Coroner.

  ……….

  ‘OK, just tell me what you saw and what you did.’

  I didn’t know he was dead. At first we thought he was watching us while we were . . . .’ his voice tailed off a
nd he looked down sheepishly. ‘Then when he didn’t move and didn’t say anything I thought that he was sick, or unconscious. That’s why I phoned the ambulance on my mobile. The paramedics must have called you lot because I didn’t. Can we go now? Only Kate’s mum will be wondering where she is. You won’t tell her will you? I mean, not that we were – you know? We were supposed to be going to the car boot sale at the scout hut further along the road and if she finds out that we found the bloke she’ll want to know what we were doing at the old hall, and then we’ve a problem. Kate’s, er, um, well her mum keeps tabs on her if you know what I mean and the balloon would go up well and truly.

  ‘No problem. You did right. You weren’t to know.’ Then, turning to the obviously scared girl: ‘And I won’t tell your mum love. It looks as though the man died from a heart attack anyway so it will all go quiet once we’ve handed everything over to the coroner. Your secret will be safe but I need a statement first. It’s best done now so that you don’t need to come down to the station.

  These two might be old enough to get up to some fun and games in the woods but sure as hell they were showing their youth now. Scared shitless wouldn’t be too strong a description thought the sergeant. And scared of Mummy at that. More coffee was ordered and the grilling continued

  According to the couple they had gone to the scout hut and bought a couple of paperback books. Then they had walked the half mile to the hall. At first they had heard some talking the other side of the ruin so had gone back to the farmyard to kill time in the café. When they returned, apart from some birds in the trees it was quiet and they had the place to themselves. They hadn’t seen the man arrive and hadn’t even realised that he was there. Well, they wouldn’t would they? They had other things on their minds. No, they didn’t see whoever they had overheard talking earlier leave the woods either. Nor had they recognised the dead man – although his face would now be forever etched in their memories.

  ……….

  ‘John missed it because there were no tell tale signs apart from the eyes Frank. He mentioned that the cheeks were ruddy so I expected a drink problem leading to the heart attack but there’s not a drop of alcohol in him. His eyes were bloodshot so without the alcohol I’ve had to look for another reason. We found it in the chest. It’s not a heart attack frank, it’s asphyxiation.’

  Frank Davies’ mind was working overtime. The case had been tied up. A young couple having a leg-over had found a middle-aged man who had died of a heart attack while he had been watching them. Over excitement, pure and simple. Natural causes. No problem. He had thought that the post mortem would have been a foregone conclusion but now here was the forensic pathologist phoning with an altogether different theory.

  ‘You sure doc?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes. The eyes were the giveaway but we found a build up of carbon dioxide in the tissues and some bruising on the chest that points not to a heart attack but asphyxiation.’

  ‘Strangled? But there were no marks’

  ‘No Frank, it’s not strangulation. When there is a lack of oxygen to the brain for any length of time, and there are other reasons for that as well as strangulation, lethal gases can build up and that’s what seems to have happened here. It happens sometimes with sexual games when it’s done temporarily for arousal but it’s bloody dangerous. You may remember that a singer and a TV presenter both died that way some years ago. We call it Auto Erotic Asphyxiation by the way.’

  ‘So this was a sexual prank gone wrong then?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t think that it could be self-inflicted and with no ligature marks on the neck it is not the usual sex game that can go wrong and end in strangulation either. No, in this case, as well as the bloodshot eyes and carbon dioxide, there was bruising to the chest that indicates that this is compressive asphyxia, or the limitation of expansion of the lungs because of compression of the torso. Although it’s like being crushed, actually the cause of death is being starved of oxygen. There’s oil or grease in the gash on his head that I can’t identify until the lab report comes back but this guy didn’t die of natural causes Frank.’

  Replacing the phone, Davies pondered the surprising turn of events. Whoever the poor sod was he had carried no identification and nobody fitting the description had been registered as missing. There was absolutely no indication of the dead man’s identity.

  Leaning back in his chair and reaching up to clasp his hands behind his head, Don Radcliffe looked across to Davies. Friends and colleagues for many a year, the two detective inspectors shared an office that was often just referred to within the police station as ‘the Inspectors room.’ Their desks at right angles, little was private between them and ideas or opinions were often shared.

  ‘Problem Frank?’

  ‘Looks like it’ said Davies. ‘According to the Doc, they’re saying that the stiff I was dragged out to see at the old ruin didn’t have a heart attack because it was Auto Erotic Asphyxiation so he got himself topped.’

  ‘How old was he? I thought that you said he was an older bloke. It’s usually the younger ones who go in for kinky sex.’

  ‘The pathologist says it’s not a sex thing. This scientific stuff is way over my head but he says the guy definitely didn’t die from a heart attack - something about being crushed but that that’s not the reason for his death. He didn’t look as though he had been crushed to me. He was just slumped in the fireplace. It was as though he’d had a skinfull and then sat down to sleep it off. Or fallen down – there was a bump on his noddle to back that theory up - but apart from that there wasn’t a mark on him.’ Davies took a sip from his coffee mug, grimaced and continued ‘This coffee is shit. Goes with how things are going at the moment I suppose. First I got in the Chief’s bad books for turning up late for dinner, now I’ll have to see if anything remains of the crime scene or if it’s been destroyed by the sex mad thrashing about of the area’s idle young. If it’s all gone to pot then that’ll be another dressing down from on-high and if that means I get home late there will be a long face and an icy mood from the wife. Shit all round I suppose.’ Looking across at his colleague he added, ‘I’ll swap you for your randy artist.’

  Giving a chuckle, Radcliffe tipped his chair back again onto all its legs, dropped his hands and started twirling a pencil. An offer to exchange cases was nothing more than continual banter between them and in reality, no matter how difficult, how perverse, neither would ever relinquish a case until it had been solved or removed from above. ‘Didn’t you secure it?’ he asked.

  ‘Secure what?’

  ‘The crime scene of course’ said Radcliffe. ‘Didn’t you secure the immediate surroundings and have CSI give it the once over.’

  ‘Didn’t see the point. The doc said it was a heart attack so that was me out. Bugger. I guess I need to get back out there pronto.’

  ……….

  Only a small board at the roadside gave any indication that the track led to anything more than a field. A coppice could be seen no more than 200 mtrs from the road, but not the ruined mansion it hid or the collection of buildings around the farmyard. Parking next to a stone building at the end of the track, Davies felt that he had stepped back at least a century into rural England or onto the set of some period country TV programme. Pop Larkin came to mind. Ducks were swimming on a pond to his right and peacocks were roaming free. Behind the pond, two stone buildings had been converted into a photo studio and a café signed up as The Hay Loft Tea Shop, while on the far side of the yard opposite him was an open barn. To his left, housed in another stone building, was a farm produce shop, beyond which he could see the copse, though even at such close range the ruined building was still completely hidden, a gravel path disappearing into the copse being the only indication that something might lie beyond.

  A uniformed constable stood guarding the entrance to the path, which had been closed off with police tape. Showing his warrant card, Davies ducked under the tape and made his way towards the ruined mansion, wh
ere Sergeant Debbie Lescott was already talking to a man in a white overall, previously known as Scenes of Crime Officers, or SOCOs, but more recently Crime Scene Investigators in line with the advent of popular American TV programmes – oh, the power of TV. The man turned to the approaching Davies. ‘Inspector, I wish you had closed this area off and called us in yesterday when the body was found.’

  ‘We didn’t know that it was a murder scene then son.’

  ‘Quite. Debbie has explained all that. But with the scene having been unprotected for over a day, any number of people could have been here so anything we turn up could be quite unrelated to your crime. In any case, it’s hard enough getting shoe prints or other giveaway signs. These trees are like a big umbrella over the whole place and the earth is dry and springy anyway. I am going through the motions but I am wasting my time. And we are short staffed as well.’

  ‘Point taken,’ Davies conceded, ‘We desperately need a lead on this. Though, We don’t even know who the poor blighter is yet, Anything might help, big or small.’

  ‘It’s a pity he wasn’t dumped further out, say near where the path starts. The path itself is gravel but after the rain we had a few days ago you’ve got to go through some mud and soft ground where the cars have been parked so we might have got something from there.’

  ‘And don’t I know it’ responded Davies. ‘I ruined a pair of decent shoes the first time I came – and look at me now for God’s sake; slutched up again and mud all over my suit.’

  ‘Well, you’ve been before so you should have known to dress for the conditions.’ Turning to the sergeant he added, ‘Like Debbie.’

  He was right of course. The sergeant was, as usual, kitted out immaculately in the appropriate clothes for the occasion. In the office she had been wearing an immaculately laundered blouse tucked into perfectly styled trousers with a knife-edge crease. The ensemble was tight where it should be tight and loose where it should be loose, drawing attention to her perfect figure. Her shoes had heels high enough to add to the elegant image yet low enough to enable her to glide across the room. Yet not only had she managed to beat him out to the old ruin, she had also found time to change into outdoor gear. Her Rockport boots had a slight smear of tan coloured mud along the welt, but other than that, her Timberland trousers and Berghaus all-weather jacket looked as though they could have been lifted straight from the shop rail. How did she do that? Smart arse.